(Howdy! I indulged in illicit behavior and didn't stop writing after 20 minutes because I'm sick (physically, not mentally or emotionally before rumor gets started). It was keeping me distracted tonight (oooh da pain, I won't eat for the next 50 years) but then I came to the end. So here is this monster "short" (hah) exercise.)
* * *
[Well, hello there. A pleasure to see you again, please have a seat and make yourself comfortable. Tea? Biscuits? No? Eager to get started on the research for your class in exotic cultures, are you? Well, here's the story, as I heard it.]
By the year 2120, the planet Earth could no longer sustain its reckless citizens.
Natural resources had been all but stripped by short-sighted, greedy businessmen. Global warming hurried along by the lackadaisical and the unheeding had created acidic oceans, unprecedented droughts, and unchecked storm surges. Parts of the world, previously inhabited, had become deadly wastelands after the infamous "mini-wars" of 2044.
The majority of what was left of mankind now scrabbled for existence, like rats piling upon each other, swarming up from the hold of a sinking ship. In other parts of the world there were not enough people left to bury the dead--corpses littered the landscape.
The few sheltered rich seemed content deluding themselves that they could go on being the robber barons of Earth forever. But it could only be a matter of time before the planet went completely dark. Inevitably, panic set in even among the upper class.
Then, at the brink of crisis, alien beings calling themselves "the Igigi" appeared to people all over the world, like lightning from heaven. Most people, being unfamiliar with ancient Mesopotamia mythology, called them angels (and the purported Igigi apparently saw no reason to quibble over it).
Miraculously, these "angels," to whom all languages were as one, began to repair nature itself.
Mankind had no way to describe or understand it, but people wept as they watched forests spring up from the scorched earth, the skies clearing, rivers starting to run again, sparkling and clear, fields becoming lush and green. Ruined cities were razed to the ground and cleared of contaminants. Rusted hulks of what might have been trains and airplanes vanished from the landscapes. Decayed, rotting homes disappeared and clean new shelters sprang up to house the people.
Most of the wretched masses were grateful, but there were those who still clung to some spark of pride, of independence. They didn't want to be moved around like chess pieces. Sure, their homes might have been slums, but they were their slums.
But, you see, the Igigi had never asked what the residents of Earth wanted.
They appeared, made their announcement of being "deliverers," and having received what they considered to be consent, proceeded to act without further consultation.
True, the so-called angels enticed struggling mankind with a tantalizing vision of a new life, a glimpse of heaven on earth, but, after a brief seduction and promise of utopia, instead, plunged them back into despair.
Because the terms of survival were as follows: As long you obeyed, you would be fed, clothed, receive medical care, and be sheltered from the elements. In return, mankind was to give up its independence, its will. For a revitalized people, this soon became unbearable.
For one thing, the work assignments were primitive. The Igigi apparently hated machinery. Everything was to be done by hand with primitive tools. Chopping down trees, harvesting crops, digging ditches, sewing a seam—and the immortals couldn't be bothered to do such lowly things which would have taken a mere flick of their celestial eyelashes. After the restoration of nature had taken place, humans were assigned into work crews that worked from sun-up to sundown.
Families were allowed to stay together in the shelters until children reached a certain age. Then the "angels" decided where they would be assigned—to what job and what geographical area. Any invention or new idea coming from a human was squelched. (If it had merit, the angels would have already thought of it, yes?) Private ownership beyond the clothing on your back was almost non-existent. And there seemed to be no word for "fun" in the vocabulary of the divine.
Equally alarming, was the rumor that the angels would soon be arranging hand-fasting, controlling the breeding stock.
(When the complaints started penetrating into the celestial frequency, the Igigi were affronted. These earth beings were CREATED centuries ago to serve the Igigi and do their work! What faulty memories these creatures had. What lack of gratitude!)
People murmured in discontent, but no one was suicidal enough to face off against their divine overlords.
[Well, you know how news gets around. It wasn't long before the other team got wind of the situation there. Where angels pop up, demons are sure to follow!]
There was a lot going on in the universes at the time, and so it was that a powerful yet lower-ranking demon (whose name was generally unprounceable by mortals, and therefore went by the name of Lord Spanki) got tapped for the job of sniffing out the situation on Earth. Was the population malcontent? Were the people ripe for a change in leadership? And how much could his kind profit from this?
Spanki preferred to appear as a well-groomed human male, slightly under six feet tall with pale skin and a receding hairline of wavy brown hair. Glasses, a tad overweight, well-dressed, with an expression of studied fastidiousness.
A stickler for protocol, he made a courtesy call on the Igigis of Earth while his attachés stealthily performed recon during the purposely-long formal meeting. By the time the meeting concluded, Spanki's subordinates had gathered enough favor from humans for him to challenge the Igigi for control of the planet.
They could have engaged in some long drawn-out affair, a war for the next hundred years or so, but Lord Spanki had no room in his schedule for that! No indeed! A duel was agreed upon. Bowing to Earth's myths, it would be at high noon the next day. The location: a clearing in the restored forest of Compiègne. (Ah, the merry times Lord Spanki had once spent there, romping with King Clothar the Great.)
The champion for the Igigi was chosen among them—a great warrior by the name of Humbaba.
The weapon of choice was to be hori hori knives. The challenging party's preference.
"We know not of these hory hory knives," the Igigi's counsel said coldly to Lord Spanki, looking at his overabundant form with disdain, "but we agree to your terms, since the Lord High Humbaba will, of course, prevail no matter what conditions are offered. A demon of the 9th rank is no match for one of the Igigi. I suggest that you make your apologies and depart this galaxy instead of participating in this foolish challenge to our supremacy here."
Lord Spanki leaned back in the uncomfortable oversized metal chair (these chaps knew nothing about décor) and waved a scented handkerchief discretely under his nose. "Now, now, I can't turn tail and run. Obligations of the job and all that. Surely, you understand."
The barbarians hadn't even offered him refreshments. And they let people believe they were angels! Spanki wrinkled his nose. They were nothing but jumped up minor deities. Once ditch-diggers and now acting like they were all that. How very unamusing.
He leaned forward, scanned, and signed the 12-page document that the immortal had shoved impatiently at him, obviously eager to conclude their business.
The next day promptly at noon, Lord Spanki arrived at the forest clearing with his retainers in tow, and presented a small weapons case to the scowling Lord Humbaba (who loomed several feet above). When the scornful Igigi, who was decorated with many ribbons of every hue, made no move to open it, the demon opened the case and politely offered his opponent his pick of the weapons.
Lord Humbaba reached out and hovered his hand over one diminutive knife, which looked even more tiny next to his huge hand. "What's this?" roared his opponent wrathfully, "Am I supposed to use this as a toothpick?"
Lord Spanki smiled beatifically. "It's a gardening tool, Baba. I may call you Baba, may I not?"
"You may not," snapped Humbaba's second, a flaming haired Igigi of a mere seven feet. That's Lord High Humbaba to you, demon! And what do you mean, it's a gardening tool?!"
Lord Spanki gently set the case down on the ground, pulled on a pair of leather gardening gloves and adjusted his knee protectors over the fine cloth of his trousers.
"Just that, sir," he purred. "Hori hori knives—a marvelous tool for gardening. The first to make a flower bloom in this clearing, nurtured by his opponent's blood, wins. You'll see--it's all in the paperwork." Humming a little tune, he turned his back on the onlookers, picked up a knife from the neglected case and start to prepare a patch of soil as the noise volume rose.
"I had assumed your obscure wording such as 'blood given to the nurturing ground' meant the blood shed during combat to the death!" fumed the Igigi counsel.
"Really sir, you must read the fine print in these cases," advised the demon, without bothering looking up.
"I can provide blood, YOUR blood," roared Lord Humbaba, "even with this toy!" And he lunged for the remaining hori hori knife – and immediately dropped it, unable to retain his grasp on it for even a second.
"What – is – this?" he growled. "Treachery!"
"Not at all," replied Lord Spanki, calmly, after whispering some magickal incantations to the soil, "don't you remember your own history? How the Igigi set fire to their tools and rebelled against their lords and against performing agricultural labor? And thus, were freed and elevated. However…"
He stood up, his sharp gardening knife in hand, daintily brushing the dirt off his knees. "However, legend has it that since that day all full-blooded Igigis are unable to lay a hand on "agricultural" tools. Some sort of proof of pure breeding and superiority, I suppose. While I, on the other hand…"
Here, Spanki whirled (amazingly agile for such a bookish-looking demon), making a shallow slice at his opponent's chest and cutting loose a white ribbon which he caught before it fluttered to the ground, "I, myself, have no such restriction."
The demon winced to see the ribbon (made of the finest white sea-silk) marred by even a single drop of Igigi blood. However, he put aside such squeamishness for it was a fine seed for his enchantment. He gently tucked it in the ground, covering it over with rich loam, while Lord Humbaba howled wrathfully, restrained by onlookers. A plant began to push through the dirt, its fine green shoots soon followed by pointed leaves of velvety white, speckled with red.
Lord Spanki couldn't wait to introduce his new charges to life, Spanki-style!
